


Seven Handmade Heavens

by yakman



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Canon-Compliant Character Death (kinda), Catholicism, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, age gap, local dumbass's portrayal of complex criminal organizations, mob boss romanicization, stealing catholic aesthetic for horny reasons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yakman/pseuds/yakman
Summary: Diarmute AU Week 2020 prompt fulfillment. Featuring soulmates, the mob, merfolk, angels, and demons—an apocalypse, a crossover, and a fairytale. Each chapter will have its specific rating and tags in the notes.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 16
Kudos: 27





	1. Heaven Is Bittersweet

**Author's Note:**

> day 1, july 19th: soulmates
> 
> chapter rating: T
> 
> word count: 3882
> 
> relevant tags: Canon-Compliant Character Death (kind of), Angst, Soulmates, Age Gap*
> 
> *technically age gap is a valid tag for all of these probably (as per canon), but in this ficlet it’s explicitly acknowledged.

//

Diarmuid was never one for patience. 

As a child traveling with his father, he’d hated when they stayed in one place for too long. Whether it was a town or a campsite or the barn of a kindly farmer who asked only for the sound of his father’s lute in return for lodging, it took a day or less for Diarmuid to grow agitated—kicking and whining as children are wont to do, sometimes packing up his own things as though he were ready to make off on his own (he never did).

“Learn to linger, Diarmuid,” his father would say in response to his restlessness—sometimes he would strum a few chords for emphasis, and grin triumphantly when Diarmuid called out a complaint. “There is plenty of time, but only a precious amount you can spend here. Learn to spend it well.”

He was an unexpectedly merry man, for one who had lost his soulmate so early in life. Diarmuid’s own memories of his mother were few, blurry and still, like staring at one’s own reflection in trembling water. His father didn’t speak of her much—for all his talk of lingering, his preference when he did move was always forward.

The only time he did speak of her was in the context of Diarmuid’s own soulmate. It meant the stories were often painful—though not always bad. In fact, Diarmuid got the distinct impression that his parents had weathered much of life with a shared, unerring positivity.

“The thread was how your mother found me, you know,” his father had told him, one fireside night under the stars, when Diarmuid’s ankle and arm hurt something awful (his soulmate must’ve taken quite the tumble, his father had laughed while helping him lay down). “Her family ran the village apothecary. I’d fallen and scraped my knee pretty bad, and my mother sent me to them to get it taken care of. Your mother was there, just a child herself, and though we’d seen each other in passing before, she took one look at my injury and exclaimed, ‘You!’” His father laughed, and Diarmuid didn’t miss its wistful note. “Apparently my mark is quite small—on my ear, almost completely covered by hair at that time. I had an awful haircut back then.”

Then his father tilted his head toward Diarmuid and traced from the lobe of his ear up into the curve of the shell—delicately, as though following a phantom touch. Glittering in the starlight, his eyes settled on something far away.

“The pain is bittersweet,” he murmured finally. “It hurts, I know—but it means your partner is alive.”

//

It was different at the monastery.

Unlike his father, the monks spoke little of their soulmates because of rules—a lifestyle that placed one’s connection with the Divine above all else. The reasons for each brothers’ indictment into the monastic lifestyle were as varied as the shells on the cliffshore the monastery was perched above—and more of their stories would remain a mystery than ones Diarmuid would come to learn. Some were like his father—they lost their soulmate. Others were separated by choice.

Diarmuid—did not think he would ever understand them.

His own move to the monastery was less planned. It happened to be the place that cared for his father the winter he died—his father had known it was his time (his mother had read his mark when she was still alive and told him so), and had chosen a place he knew Diarmuid would be well cared for. 

A monk the others called Brother Ciarán delivered the news of his father’s passing to Diarmuid, who sat shivering by a fireplace in the kitchen, curled as close to the pit as possible to avoid being underfoot of busy monks, wondering if it was the fate of everyone who loved him to die.

“Do you have anywhere to go? Some of the monks can accompany you.” Brother Ciarán placed a hand, warm and steady, on Diarmuid’s shoulder. Diarmuid shook his head and pulled his knees closer to his chest. Brother Ciarán sighed—exchanged a glance with one of the cooking monks over Diarmuid’s head. “Is there anyone?”

Diarmuid shook his head again. A heavy silence.

“Then you’ll stay here.”

//

He was barely ten years old when he became an oblate.

“Brother Ciarán,” he asked about a month in, “when do I have to leave?”

Brother Ciarán blinked at him. “Never. You may stay here the rest of your days, if you wish.”

“But my—soulmate,” Diarmuid stammered.

“Ah. You are not like the rest of us, Diarmuid. You are not here under the same circumstances. If you find your soulmate, I don’t believe anyone would bear you ill for choosing to pursue a life with them.” He paused—then added, with a tinge of apology, “But you would not be able to stay here. I hope you understand.”

//

He forgot about his soulmate for a while, if he were being honest.

Not purposefully, and never completely—the monastery was simply designed for such a mindset, and as a child his focus was, perhaps naturally, on other things—dinner (why so many vegetables, so little meat?), the demons hiding in the corners of his darkened room (cell), when Brother Ciarán would next take him on a walk (he looked forward to these more than anything).

Perhaps time seemed infinite, still—despite his entire life being nothing but impermanence and change. He just—assumed his soulmate would find him, eventually.

His only reminder was the pain. For all the monks’ efforts to design an insular world of spiritual reverence and holy contemplation of higher things—“In the world but not of the world,” the Abbot would say—it was impossible to sever the thread, or scrub away one’s mark.

At age twelve, Diarmuid was helping Brother Rua shear sheep when the older monk yelped, dropped his tools, and clutched his hand to his chest. For a moment Diarmuid thought he had cut himself, and he stepped away from his position—standing with the sheep between both knees—to help; then Brother Rua released his hand and shook it, hissing, but apparently unbloodied. Slowly, Diarmuid settled his legs back around the sides of the sheep.

“Are you alright?” he asked, hesitantly. He never spoke much with Brother Rua; it seemed neither of them knew exactly what to say to each other. Most of the monks’ eyes were wrinkled around the edges, turned downward, wise and kind. Brother Rua’s were sharp, like a knife—Diarmuid was never certain how to read such an expression.

“Fine,” said Brother Rua. He turned his hand over and back, appraising it. He glared as though it had personally offended him. “They bit me.”

“Bit you?” Diarmuid tried to remember if Brother Rua had ever spoken more than a single word to him at once.

“I think they’ve realized I’m not exactly looking for them.” Rua picked the shears up off the ground. Then he paused, thoughtfully, and with his free hand slapped himself across the face. The sound rang out across the valley, and Diarmuid winced. Brother Rua returned to his work. “I’m not sure if they’re trying to get my attention or if they’re just bitter.”

Diarmuid watched him for a while in silence. “They must really want to meet you,” he said at last.

“Then they’re a fool,” Rua grunted.

“Doesn’t it make you sad,” Diarmuid persisted, “to think you’ll never see them? The one God made for you?”

“Are all children so meddlesome, or is it just you?” Brother Rua asked—then, without waiting for an answer, “No person is made _for_ another. We are all made, first and foremost, for the glory of God. The world takes for granted that these threads and these marks will lead us where we’re meant to be. The path of righteousness is not that simple.”

Diarmuid couldn’t help but frown. That was different from what his father told him. “But— _they_ must want to meet you. Isn’t it unfair to keep that part of their life from them just because it’s what you believe is right?”

Brother Rua laughed, short and acidic. “I led a complicated life before I was a monk, Brother Diarmuid.” Diarmuid squirmed, because even after two years the title still felt strange alongside his name. “If they never meet me, they’re better off.”

//

When Diarmuid was fifteen, Brother Cathal collapsed during vespers on a summer evening. 

He had a hand over his mouth as he doubled over, clearly trying to disrupt as little as possible. The brothers on either side of him caught his arms before he fell completely, and escorted—dragged—him from the chapel.

He missed the evening meal entirely, and afterward Diarmuid was sent to Brother Ciarán’s apothecary chamber with bread and—concerningly—rabbit stew.

“Are you alright?” Diarmuid asked before he had even set the food beside the cot where Brother Cathal rested. He was awake, sitting up, looking pale and small but otherwise healthy.

“The pain has passed,” Brother Cathal replied. He took the food, smiling weakly when Diarmuid sat cross-legged in front of the cot instead of leaving. On the other side of the small room, Brother Ciarán busied himself with a mortar and pestle.

“What do you think happened?” Diarmuid asked earnestly. His brothers were used to his questions now, and Cathal had always been one of the more indulgent of his inquisitiveness.

Cathal focused his attention to dipping his bread in the stew. “I don’t know. It was the worst pain I’ve ever felt, mine or theirs.” He took his time chewing, swallowing. “But whatever it was, they’re—they’re gone, now.”

Diarmuid drew back. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t really know them.”

Dried leaves rustled—crushed between stones. The bread disappeared.

“Brother Cathal,” Diarmuid began, “since you never met them, you didn’t—know when they would die, right?”

Cathal shook his head. “I never saw their mark.”

Diarmuid twisted the loose end of his rope belt around his hand, his wrist; undid it and did it again. “I mean—my parents both told each other when they were going to die. Da’ said it gave them the chance to use all their time together to the fullest.”

“I think that’s the most common decision,” Cathal said. “Most soulmates have similar lifespans, anyway.”

Diarmuid looked up abruptly. “Does that mean you’ll—”

“Enough, Brother Diarmuid,” Brother Ciarán turned from his work table with a small bowl. He brought it to Cathal, who shook it into the remainder of his stew with a slight tremor, seeming thankful for the interruption. “Let him rest.”

He placed a hand atop Diarmuid’s head, and though Diarmuid felt his face warm at the gentle reprimand, he fell silent.

“Timekeeping marks are imprecise,” Brother Ciarán continued, not unkindly, “and can easily grow into an obsession. Too many have had their marks read by their other and succumbed to fear and doubt. It can cripple, consume that precious time—waste it.” 

Diarmuid stood, and Brother Ciarán smiled softly—reached out and affectionately adjusted the hood of his cowl. “To abstain from the knowledge of God’s sacred plan is to turn that time back to Him.”

//

His back caught fire the summer of his seventeenth.

Before then, the pain he’d felt from his soulmate was minimal. Though some of his brothers showed concern with the frequency at which he acquired sore muscles, aching ribs, or a stiff jaw, he grew accustomed to shaking it off. It wasn’t so difficult when there was no real injury—only the spectral sensation of pain.

This, though—this was different. It was a turning point.

He felt the first sharp pin prick between his shoulder blades in early summer while in the scriptorium, practicing his penmanship. Light filtered in through the open windows, catching on the shine of ink still waiting to dry. 

His quill paused above his parchment. He didn’t even have the chance to reach back at the spot before he felt it again—slightly lower, stronger. He must have grimaced, because the monk sitting at the desk beside him stopped, as well. 

“Brother Diarmuid?” he prompted. “Is everything alright?”

“I think—” It felt as though someone was treating his skin like cloth, or parchment—threading a fishbone needle or pushing the sharpened tip of a new quill hard enough to piece through. The burning blossomed across the entire surface, and he cried out, dropping his writing utensil.

“Brother Diarmuid!” several chairs clattered back.

Diarmuid leaned against his desk, pressing his forehead into two closed fists. “I’m fine! I’m fine.”

The pain spread like fire across dry grass—stab after stab in short succession, a red heat building beneath the skin. Diarmuid’s vision went white—he faintly heard himself shout, one arm reaching for nothing—and when he could see again there was ink everywhere, blue and black soaking into the blank pages of his book, red snaking over the edge of the desk and onto the floor.

“Take him to Brother Ciarán,” ordered a voice that sounded inexplicably far away.

It wasn’t until he was finally behind the closed door of Ciarán’s apothecary that the tears began to flow. He tried to hold them behind closed eyes, clenching his teeth against the accompanying sob, but as soon as he felt the careful, warm hands on his back through his robes, maintaining his pride was impossible.

“Where does it hurt?” Brother Ciarán’s voice was tranquil, balm enough for the panic that had begun rising in Diarmuid’s chest to subside. He motioned helplessly, and Brother Ciarán began undressing him.

“What—” A fresh wave of searing pain sent him lurching forward—Ciarán led him to the cot in the corner of the room. “What’s happening to them?”

“Don’t worry about them,” Brother Ciarán murmured, smoothing his hands down Diarmuid’s back. The feeling was surprisingly helpful—something real to focus on beyond the phantom pains—like when his father used to soothe him after a nightmare. Diarmuid tried to focus on the rhythm. 

“But they’re—” he cut off with a whimper as the needling sensation started fresh partway down his spine. _They’re hurting them. They’re hurting me. They’re hurting us._

“Stay present, Diarmuid.” The hands disappeared, and Diarmuid curled his fingers into the cot’s single blanket. “I have something to numb the area.”

The fire lasted for the rest of the day—well into the night—until dawn.

It was only the beginning.

//

For the next three years, pain came and went in violent bursts. He would go months without, wondering if whatever had befallen his soulmate had ended, if they were finally safe—and then he would be bedridden for days.

Every time, Brother Ciarán asked him to describe the pain.

And every time—“Sharp. It st-stings.” Diarmuid would clutch his side, his arm, his shoulder, and bite back hot tears. “What’s h-happening to them?”

Ciarán never answered the question—though once, Diarmuid caught sight of his expression through the pain and saw grim recognition.

He kept stocks of numbing medicine always on hand.

//

When he was eighteen, during a period of peace, Diarmuid sat on the edge of the cliffs overlooking the sea. All around him snow whisked through the salty breeze, dissolving before it even touched the ground.

He pinched his arm, digging crescents into his skin with blunted nails until the surface flooded bone-white. _Where are you?_

The pain was so trivial, he wondered if the other even felt it.

//

He was nineteen and it was summer. It began as an itch in the back of his throat.

He hadn’t felt any pain for several weeks, and though by now he knew it was pointless to think any break would be the end of it, still—he hoped.

Like many of his brothers, he didn’t feel any particular emotions for his soulmate, a nameless and faceless entity on the other end of an invisible thread. But he still sensed some sort of—attachment, and he wondered if the other monks felt something similar and simply never spoke of it. Or, perhaps so much shared pain was enough to build a bond without ever meeting.

He worried for them, whoever they were. Irrationally, he wished they were at the monastery, so he could hide them away from whatever was hurting them. He wanted them to be safe.

He had grown tired of going to Ciarán every time the pain returned. After the first year and a half, he’d begun soldiering through as much as he could—until he would give himself away and another brother would drag him by the arm to the apothecary chamber.

This time, at the first sign of fever, he took himself.

“You’re certain it’s not _your_ pain?” Brother Ciarán put the back of one hand to his forehead. Diarmuid swallowed, shook his head.

“I don’t feel sick, just hot and—” he rubbed at his throat. Alongside the scratchy sensation, a lump was forming, one that made it difficult to speak without choking. “Both of my parents, Ciarán, this is how they—”

Fever. Illness.

_This is how they died._

Brother Ciarán’s face crumbled. His hands moved to cup either side of Diarmuid’s face. “Let’s have you lay down.”

//

The fever reached its pitch in a matter of hours. No amount of water could wash the sand from his throat. 

Then it all faded.

He laid in the cot of the apothecary chamber, dazed, staring at the ceiling. Tracing a veinlike crack running through the stone with his eyes, over and over.

 _They’re gone,_ he thought. The illness took them even faster than it did either of his parents.

Even though he had never met them, never had the chance to understand their pain, he still felt—a lack.

“I’m cursed,” he murmured to Ciarán, as the older man pulled the blanket over him.

“Rest,” Brother Ciarán answered.

//

The next day he attended each liturgy and ate with the brothers. But when it came time for work hours to begin, the Abbot told him his only task was to pray.

“For your other’s immortal soul,” he explained, when Diarmuid stared at him blankly. “It may be untethered from your own, but you can still have sway over its destiny.”

The chapel felt stifling and his cell just made him tired—so he walked the beach to contemplate.

It felt strange—how nothing was really different. He thought that perhaps this was why all his brothers seemed so unaffected by the loss.

It was a shame they had never met, though—as a child living with his father, it had been a given that he one day would. It was a given that everyone would.

He found him in the currach.

//

“You needn’t linger, Diarmuid,” Brother Ciarán assured. He was bustling about the apothecary chamber, clearing the mess that had been made in the past hour and preparing more remedies. There had been five other monks in the tiny square of space until only recently, moving quietly and frantically, several of whom Diarmuid had never seen as anything other than composed and contemplative.

Now, the chamber was empty, save for Ciarán, Diarmuid, and—the man. Diarmuid sat beside the cot, bouncing one knee, eyes darting between Ciarán’s turned back and the man, lying asleep.

His skin was dark and rough and burned, his clothes tattered and stained with salt, his beard wild—and Diarmuid could not stop staring.

(He’d been wrong. The illness hadn’t been an illness at all.)

_It’s him._

“I just want to make sure he’s alright,” Diarmuid replied. When he glanced back at Ciarán, he saw the older man placing a wooden lid atop a mortar. When Ciarán turned to face him, Diarmuid quickly put a hand on his knee to stop it from shaking.

“It seems he’ll pull through, in part thanks to you.” Brother Ciarán laced his fingers together and stepped over to get a closer look. His brows were raised. “He’s lucky you found him.”

“God brought him to our shores,” Diarmuid said quickly— _because I prayed,_ he left unsaid.

Brother Ciarán smiled. “That he did. Now, we should both get some rest.”

“Someone should stay with him,” Diarmuid said, “in case he wakes up.”

“I will check on him in a few hours.”

“Or—I could watch over him.” Diarmuid toyed anxiously with his belt end. “I—I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

He watched as Ciarán’s face fell into sympathy— _he still thinks my soulmate is dead_. “You should at least try.”

Diarmuid glanced back at the man. Following the outline of a broad nose and prominent jaw—every fiber of his being screaming not to be separated.

He’d thought this man dead before he even knew him, and decided it was okay—but now that he was _here_ and _alive,_ the relief was staggering. His head spun. Around the other monks he had not allowed himself to fully think, fully acknowledge, but now that things had quieted down he wasn’t sure how much longer he could pretend—

“At least give me a moment to pray for him,” Diarmuid urged. He heard Ciarán sigh, and tore his gaze away from the man.

“Try not to stay too long,” Ciarán said. Then, somewhat unexpectedly, he reached down and ruffled Diarmuid’s hair. “And try to rest, boy.”

Diarmuid nodded earnestly—and as soon as the door of the apothecary closed between them, he scrambled over to the cot and tore back the covers.

He had caught only a glimpse of it as the monks hauled the unconscious man from the shore. Diarmuid fumbled for the man’s right hand—it was so large, bulkier and rougher, clutched between Diarmuid’s own—and there it was, on the back.

Diarmuid ran his thumbs across the symbol, dark like ink against his skin. His eyes flew over it restlessly—twice, three times—so eager to read it, to take it in, that for a moment he forgot how.

The timekeeping mark.

But—

Diarmuid sat back on his heels. He let the hand fall into his lap, his own still curled around it—protective, shieldlike.

It couldn’t be right.

The mark was a circle, big enough to take up most of the space on the back of the man’s hand. It was separated into light and dark, like the phases of the moon. Diarmuid could imagine how, throughout his life, the circle had filled, one phase at a time. Like a very long month.

The mark was three-fourths of the way full.

Diarmuid stared at the empty crescent through the cracks of his fingers, like a child peering through their hands at something they aren’t supposed to see. His mind was overwhelmed with a million thoughts and settled on none. His heart raced, stomach dropping, dropping—

The man stirred.

Immediately, Diarmuid rose to his knees, large hand once again held tightly in his. He hovered as the man groaned—a hollow, rasping sound—and blinked. Dark eyes glittered, half-lidded and unfocused, in the low candlelight. Then they turned, and met Diarmuid’s own.

For a moment, Diarmuid forgot about the mark entirely.

“Hello,” he whispered. The man blinked again—slow, heavy. The hand in Diarmuid’s grasp twitched, and he held it tighter, pressing it against his chest. For a few seconds, the man’s brow furrowed—then his eyes settled on Diarmuid’s face, and his whole expression cleared.

The marked hand slid from Diarmuid’s hold. Sun-battered knuckles brushed across the swell of his left cheekbone. Diarmuid’s breath hitched.

“ _My name is Diarmuid,_ ” he said—this time in Latin. The man’s face, worn and exhausted as it was, lit up with recognition. Diarmuid’s voice trembled. “What’s yours?”

//


	2. Heaven is Sacrilege

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day 2, july 20th/july 26th: the mob
> 
> chapter rating: E
> 
> word count: 6615
> 
> relevant tags: Smut, Catholicism, local dumbass’s portrayal of complex criminal organizations, mob boss romanticization, Semi-Public Sex, *steals catholic aesthetic for horny reasons*  
> //  
> life took a brief nosedive right at the beginning of diarmute au week, so now i am coming in late as usual—but i am determined to finish all these dumb ideas i took the time to outline and also time isn't real, anyway.  
> consider this the afterparty.  
> (also my portrayal of both the mob and catholicism are very silly and wrong so oops!! catholics feel free to complain in the comments, mob can just shoot me on sight)

//

“Have you considered therapy?”

David looks up from wiping off his gun. Rua, the associate, motions around the general vicinity—the body, the blood on the wall.

“I get that this isn’t, uh… normally how things go. But—Jesus Christ, when I said your family could use my restaurant—”

Wordlessly, David takes a business card from the breast pocket of his pinstripe suit and holds it out to Rua. Rua takes it, reads it warily. “Why do _I_ have to contact _your_ cleanup crew? This is bullshit.”

 _Fucking Irish,_ David thinks.

“Don’t call you the Mute for nothing, huh?” Rua tucks the card into his apron. “Well, wish I could say it was lovely doing business with ya. Now get the fuck out of my store.”

//

“I killed another man.”

The words echo softly in David’s side of the confessional, hollow and wood-toned. They’re met with silence—sunlight filtering in through the ornate wooden grill at the top of the door. He watches dust particles spin and listens to the soul shift on the other side of the screen to his right.

Then, the response, playful: “I recognize this voice.”

David relaxes into the bench—every muscle unwinding, releasing the breath he didn’t realize he held. 

In the same way his silence wields power in the criminal underworld, the voice of his little priest wields power over him.

Reverend Diarmuid is not _his_ priest, really. David can’t imagine ever even attempting to—possess a person. And Diarmuid certainly serves many more besides David. Still, in moments such as these—quiet, secluded, secret—it’s very easy to pretend.

“Any other sins you wish to confess?” the Reverend asks. 

“None.”

“Are you sure? Not even a little white lie?”

His tone is so casual, as though he’s speaking to a friend, as though the fate of David’s immortal soul doesn’t hinge on his prayer—it’s completely unprofessional, and it makes David’s heart soar.

“I’m not very good at lying,” David replies—he puts on a gruffness even as he begins fidgeting with the flat parcel in his hands. It’s wrapped in plain brown paper and with thin hemp cord, just as he’s sure a holy man would like.

Diarmuid hums, a light and airy sound. “Then you’re better than most I’ve met with this week. Numerically speaking, at least.”

David laughs in spite of himself, ducks his head. This reaction alone feels somewhat unnatural—pulled from somewhere so deep within him he doesn’t even recognize it. But it’s real, whatever it is—idiotic as it probably is.

“I do—” he hesitates, leg beginning to bounce anxiously, impatiently. Still, he finds himself stalling for time. “I have these dreams. They aren’t—ah—“

“They aren’t the most holy of visions,” the Reverend supplies.

“No.”

“Care to share?”

David clears his throat. The confessional walls feel tighter—or has he suddenly grown? Either way, regardless of Diarmuid’s commitment to discretion—a commitment he trusts completely—it all becomes moot if the subject of his dreams is the one on the other side of the screen.

Instead of answering, David slides the parcel across the narrow surface the dividing screen sits on, through the small opening at the base. It’s meant for papers, so that a priest can write down penance reminders for the penitent, or the penitent can pass along confessions they are too ashamed to speak aloud just yet—but there is just enough space for David’s gift. He watches the little window closely, breath bated, until slim fingers come into view—hover over the package for a moment, then take it. David’s heart swells.

“For everything you’ve done,” he grunts. “Teaching me the prayers, always listening. Before this I had no one to talk to.”

Before this, he had nowhere he could freely speak.

He listens to the parchment being undone—he can tell by the sounds that Diarmuid is carefully pulling off the taped sections so as not to tear any of the paper, folding it as he goes—he sees the glint of sunlight in the kaleidoscopic bejeweled cross on black cord as Diarmuid holds it up.

“Oh—I can't accept this,” he says quietly, apologetically. David hopes, with irrational desperation, that he isn’t imagining the awe in his tone.

“I don’t want it back.” He tries to maintain an air of nonchalance, and hopes Diarmuid can’t hear the tapping of his heel every time his leg bounces. “If you don’t want it—I don’t know. Sell it. Donate the money.”

Before he spoke the words aloud, he thought he’d hate the idea of Diarmuid’s rejection—or him discarding the gift. But now that he thinks about it, while not ideal, both options are also so undeniably _Diarmuid_ that he cannot bring himself to find them negative. He’s humbled by the mere thought of outright refusal—as well as, perhaps in the half of him that is hot-blooded Italian, spurred to try harder—and endeared by the thought that Diarmuid, so pious, so precious, would immediately turn a sign of such material wealth—the only medium David has ever been taught to use for appreciation, affection—toward greater things.

He realizes it doesn’t really matter what Diarmuid chooses to do with it, in the end. All David wants is for his gift to be received.

But nothing is pushed back through the slot in the screen, and after a few more beats of silence he hears more rustling and a somewhat bewildered, “Well. Thank you.”

//

He isn’t sure how he ended up in the confessional booth the first time.

By all accounts, he should have ended up at a synagogue. But his mother—the Jewish side, the side from which any good he had in him came from—had taught him that unless he needed to atone for wronging a particular person, confession was a private act between himself and God for which no one else should ever be present. And that was what he was really looking for, in the end—someone besides a God he may or may not believe in to hear his voice. Hear _him_.

So, somehow, in spite of everything, he ended up at the church his father—the Roman Catholic side, the side he worked for, bled for, grappled with daily—took him to once as a child.

His father was not—still isn’t—a religious man. David walked in knowing nothing of what prayers to recite, what a penance was, if he was even technically allowed to be there. Something led him to the reconciliation room—God? The Devil? Fate?—and there was no one else present, the door slightly ajar. So he entered.

The room was sunny, plush blue carpet and white walls, a large potted plant in each corner—some tables with unlit candles along one of the walls, a mirror above it. At the far end of the room was the confessional booth—David recognized it, though he had never used one. A near-ceiling height walnut box, fixed with two heavy doors—the one on the right open to reveal a narrow chamber, gold cross hung on the wall above the bench. The corners were carved as spiraling pillars, a detailing of vines climbing over the archway of each door, with blossoming cherub’s faces at the top. 

He hesitated in the doorway only briefly—checking to see if there was the partition he had heard of, to shield him from the holier. There was.

David tromped in, closing each door roughly behind him, and fell like a stone onto the bench.

“I pulled out a man’s teeth. And broke four of his fingers.” 

The startled yelp on the other side of the screen gave David half the mind to bolt. Then, the figure on the other side of the screen—a shadow, moving around somewhat frantically—cleared its throat.

“Welcome, child! Apologies, you caught me in the middle of”—a yawn—“prayer. How about, ah—how about we begin with your venial sins?”

David didn’t know what a venial sin was. He didn’t know that he was supposed to begin his confession with a specific set of words. And, though the priest gently prompted him, he couldn’t remember how many times he had committed the mortal sins of “murder” and “extortion” before.

“It’s generally good practice to have specific numbers,” the priest explained, “so that I can assign you the proper penance.”

There was no penance for what he had done, David thought, staring at the darkened floor of the confessional, at his steel-toed boots that still held flecks of red on the laces. There was no forgiveness for men like him—men resigned to Hell by birthright.

Turned out he was wrong. Turned out the penance for a life raised in crime is twenty Hail Marys and an offhand request he not wait so long between confessions, next time.

He read the assigned prayer that night—from his phone—as many times as ordered, and returned to the confessional at the same time the following week.

It didn’t necessarily feel good in the moment—the confessional box was small and the air inside was slow, and though an increasingly large part of him wanted to speak, to just _tell_ someone his story, he never knew where to start—but afterward he felt lighter. He felt less his boss’s son and more himself. He felt free.

And the voice—it was the same voice every week. David didn’t have the energy to deny to himself that the voice was half the reason the habit formed. The voice was just as unknown to David as David was to its owner. The voice was bright and energetic in its greetings and reassurances, thoughtful and soft in its questions and guidance. The voice was strong in character—open and vibrant, lighting up the dark corners of the confessional booth and David’s mind. The voice was also strangely compassionate, in spite of everything, and unendingly positive, unendingly forgiving.

The voice was—curious. About him.

After just the third week, David decided the voice needed a name.

He snagged a church bulletin on the way out, chose an event that said the priests of the parish would be leading—some neighborhood cleanup volunteer opportunity—and showed up twenty minutes early.

Finding Diarmuid was easy. David heard his voice from across the street before he saw him—would learn quickly that he never stopped talking. David watched him, frozen, from the other side of the road.

Though he hadn’t known exactly what to expect, though the voice had sounded youthful—his mind had still supplied only vague images of middle-aged men with beards, small glasses, plain faces.

He was standing beside another clergyman who better fit David’s expectation, discussing something with an excitement David was certain he had never before seen—not in his line of work, not anywhere. Sunlight twisted in overgrown curls, reflected in dark eyes—dotted his skin with freckles, David realized as he drew closer. He was wearing dark dress pants and a short-sleeved black button down with a tab collar, which held a small white square of cloth against the base of his throat. David found his eyes drawn to it, entranced by it—how it accentuated the slenderness of his neck, the cut of his jaw, the svelte line of his shoulders.

Diarmuid turned to him, smiling—introduced himself immediately, shook David’s hand. “You’re here for the event, right?”

And David was, for once, glad that it was his personal code to never speak, because he was certain he wouldn’t be able to find words even if he tried.

Diarmuid took his silence in stride—seemed intrigued by it, even, hardly leaving his side for the entirety of the event. He talked as though David was actively engaging him, even pausing now and again when it would be appropriate for David to nod in agreement or dissent.

At the end of the day, Diarmuid shyly asked his name—the first sign of uncertainty David had ever seen on him. An extraordinary, inexplicable feeling surged, compelling him to alleviate whatever uncertainty Diarmuid harbored at once. 

He pulled a ballpoint pen and the crumpled bulletin from an inside pocket of his suit—he’d debated wearing his ‘work clothes,’ and, taking another glance at the little white square at Diarmuid’s throat, was pleased with his decision—and wrote quickly before handing it to Diarmuid—the voice—his priest.

_David._

//

Diarmuid didn’t know it was _David,_ the handwritten, on the other side of the confessional screen, so David became his friend twice over.

David couldn’t figure out how he of all people—an ineloquent murdering loan shark—was the one to make Diarmuid come alive. At first, he wondered if this was just how he was with all penitents, or all people in general.

But then he thought it _must_ be different, because he saw the way Diarmuid is outside the confessional.

Because outside the confessional, Diarmuid was reserved. His energy was still there, but carefully channeled. The way he treated _David,_ handwritten, as he began attending more events, or lingering after a Sunday service, was—different. It was warm and familiar and, for reasons David couldn’t discern, occasionally shy—but David knew from the confessional that it was an incomplete picture. Sometimes Diarmuid withdrew from him inexplicably. Sometimes he stopped talking and watched David with an expression David couldn’t parse. Sometimes Diarmuid would ask him a question, and the way the little priest deflated when he responded—a tilt of his head, a quirk of his mouth, a one-shoulder shrug—makes him think he must have answered wrong.

Meanwhile, in the confessional, though Diarmuid didn’t even know his name and David couldn’t see more than a shifting silhouette, the image he got is far more whole.

“Oh, I don’t know.” David could tell, from the angling of his voice, that Diarmuid was lounging back on his side of the screen. He’s so precious, David thought—he closed his eyes and tried to visualize it as he listened. Perhaps he had an elbow on the screen countertop, one slender leg propped on the bench, the other stretched across the floor of the booth, the material of his dress pants bunching around every curve; or maybe he was in the vestments he wore every Sunday—called a cassock, Diarmuid had told _David,_ handwritten—the ones that accentuated the small of his back, that made him look far prettier than any celibate had any right to be. Maybe the first few buttons were undone, and the buttons of the shirt underneath, too—God, there are so many layers—

He remembered where he was when Diarmuid sighed, a lovely sound that made the image far too real. With a pinch of guilt, David opened his eyes; cleared his throat; adjusted himself.

“I didn’t have the best home growing up. Reverend Ciaran basically raised me, even though he never managed to get me out of my house. He’s the reason I wanted to become a priest in the first place. The church became _my_ place, you know? And I wanted to give back to the place that saved me. But—”

More shuffling, another sigh. Then a small thump, and David looked over to see a head of curls resting against the tight mesh of the screen. A tiny lock pressed through, and it took all his willpower not to touch.

When Diarmuid spoke again, his voice was closer—and quieter, more intimate. David swallowed.

“Sometimes I wonder if this is really where I’m meant to be. Ciaran thinks it’s great that I’ve joined the priesthood, but sometimes it feels like he’s the only member of the clergy who does.”

The tempting little curl disappeared, just when David had reached his limit.

“Sorry. We’re supposed to be talking about _your_ dad.”

David smiled—he knew Diarmuid couldn’t see it, but he directed it at the floor, anyway. “I like hearing about you.” 

“Well… as long as it’s helping, I guess it’s okay.”

//

Someone is whistling as David dumps the body into the trunk of his car. He pauses thoughtfully, adjusting the gag and cuffs, trying to remember the familiar tune.

“You’re in a good mood,” Rua comments. He leans against the side of the car, crossing his arms, raising a single eyebrow. David looks up, and the whistling stops.

It’s him. He was whistling.

“I didn’t think anything could make you happy, to be honest,” Rua says. David puts all his weight into slamming the trunk. Rua remains unfazed. “I appreciate your dad-boss for promoting me and all, but I wanted to ask how long before I’m promoted _out_ of being your personal assistant. Blood makes me nauseous. I have a _condition_.”

David jams a thumb back toward the alleyway that opens up into their current location—a darkened back parking lot. Rua waves a hand and pushes away from the car.

“Yeah, I’ll check. Wouldn’t be surprised if some pedestrian called the cops on us for a _noise complaint._ I thought silence was your whole thing?”

He keeps grumbling, but David doesn’t hear the rest. He’s already thinking about what he’ll buy Diarmuid next.

At the very least, it’s a shame he can’t give Diarmuid gifts as _David,_ handwritten—something tells him that it wouldn’t be received as well. He has many ideas—bottles of wine from his family’s vineyard back in Italy, luxury dress shoes to match his clerical clothes, the massive historical-context Bible he had spent twenty minutes describing to David in intricate detail—but very few that fit through the slot in the confessional screen.

Maybe he can leave packages outside the booth?

//

The Tuesday before his next confession, the church hosts a dog walking event with the local animal shelter. Diarmuid has invited him to it during his previous confession—but, as he does every time, he makes up some excuse.

Diarmuid doesn’t know he’s already set aside the time. Maybe Diarmuid will never know. David isn’t entirely—certain where any of this was going. The confessions behind the screen, where he and Diarmuid are truest but unknown; the hovering at volunteer events and Mass as _David,_ handwritten, so that Diarmuid can flit around him like there’s some invisible barrier—what is it all for?

When he arrives at the park where the shelter is holding the event, the first thing he sees is Diarmuid sitting on a bench a ways from the setup of dog kennels and the milling, single-digit group of clergy and shelter workers, looking despondent.

David has to resist the urge to reach for a weapon. He sweeps out of the car and to the bench in a few easy strides.

“Oh,” Diarmuid looks up as he approaches, and puts on a half-smile. David’s entire chest constricts, and before he even knows the problem his mind is racing for a way to _fix._ “David. I’m glad you could make it.”

David is already pacing the grounds around the bench, sweeping for the source of the issue—he realizes a moment too late that he must look terrifying, falling into the headspace of doing a job. But Diarmuid only laughs.

“Do I really look that pitiful? Sorry, I—I am excited for today. I just…” his shoulders sag once David’s attention switches back to him. “I guess I was hoping more people would show up.”

David doesn’t really think about it. He just makes the call.

In ten minutes, the parking lot is flooded with black cars, windows tinted, releasing stone-faced men in dark suits into the sunlit fields. 

Diarmuid perks instantly, and runs to greet them. David follows a few paces behind.

“Welcome, gentlemen! Are you here for the County Animal Shelter Dog-Walking Extravaganza?”

The men line up along the curb, awaiting orders, eyes shifting between David and the approaching priest—a few of them start to circle, wide berth, like hunting wolves.

Without a single beat of hesitation, Diarmuid goes down the line, shaking each and every hand, beaming.

Accardo—always the first on the scene, six-five, a thumb-sized scar on his right brow—breaks away first and stands beside David, surveying the park. Eyes sharp, calculating.

“What’s the job, boss?”

David raises his eyebrows—nodded back toward the stacks of dog crates, where the priests and shelter workers are now huddled together, whispering and casting concerned glances at Diarmuid, who starts leading the group of towering, glowering men toward the table lined with brightly-patterned leashes.

Accardo follows David’s nod—his face grows tight, conflicted. Then he sighs—runs a powerful, scarred hand over his face—and follows the rest of the group.

//

“David!” Diarmuid runs up to the bench where David has quietly settled himself. His grin is blinding and his eyes are wide, and he’s slightly out of breath. “Did you—? These are your friends, right?”

David looks over the park—at the men he simultaneously trusts with his life and would end without hesitation if the circumstance arose, several of whom are holding comically small dogs in massive arms. 

He looks back at Diarmuid who is expectant, thrilled, waiting. He nods.

Diarmuid is in his arms before he’s even finished his answer. The position is a bit awkward—Diarmuid has one knee beside him on the bench, the other on the ground, his arms around David’s neck at an angle. For a heart-stopping second, his cheek presses against the crown of David’s head.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “This really means a lot to me.”

Then he pulls back, before David can respond, before he even has the chance to think. He stands in front of David for a moment, almost like he’s—waiting, still smiling softly.

David wants to pull him back—wants to reach out, take him by the arm, and hold him properly.

Instead, he sits on the bench, frozen. Diarmuid lets out a little laugh—and God, David is half a tic away from forgoing the hug entirely and kissing that lovely sound away.

Diarmuid runs a hand through his curls, and returns to the group.

When he gets home in the late afternoon, David doesn’t think. All he does is sit down at his computer and take the list of gifts he had compiled for consideration, deliberation—and orders every single one to the church mailing address. 

//

Diarmuid is unusually quiet this week.

David spends the first few minutes talking, more animatedly than he ever has—still riding the high of the shared touch. He’d spent the whole morning wondering if Diarmuid would mention the gifts, allowing himself to indulge in ridiculous fantasies of Diarmuid gushing over each one. 

But Diarmuid is all but silent.

David falls silent, too, and the silence stretches between them. 

Then Diarmuid’s voice is soft, hesitant. “Was it you who sent all the packages?”

He sounds nervous to ask, but beyond that—David has no idea what Diarmuid is thinking.

“Yes.”

“I see! Well—thank you, first of all. Though, I gave the wine to Ciaran. I hope you don’t mind.”

“You don’t drink.” Of course he doesn't, he's a holy man—

“No! No, I do. I just prefer—well, there’s this amazing Irish cream import at Rua’s Pub. Have you ever been? Sometimes I wear my clerical outfit there. Everybody wants to be the one who buys a priest a drink.”

David tries not to think about Diarmuid, surrounded by strangers eager to pay, at fucking _Rua’s—_

He wants to be relieved that Diarmuid’s talking more. But his tone is higher than normal, pace hurried and stilted. A stone of dread forms in David’s gut.

“Um, I am really, really thankful for the gifts. Truly. I’m just—worried that I—gave the wrong impression.”

The stone sinks lower.

“You’re a great friend—really! I know this isn’t the, um, orthodox way to befriend someone, but I really feel—a connection. Is that strange? Maybe so—I know the whole situation is. But I feel so blessed to have met you and—for your generosity. But I—can’t in good conscience accept any more gifts. It wouldn’t be honest.”

Even in this moment, David feels a wave of adoration, painful alongside the imminent failure. Is it possible for one person to be so _good?_

Maybe that’s why Diarmuid won’t accept his affection. Friendly conversations from behind the safety of a screen are one thing, but Diarmuid has learned the worst parts of him, heard of his darkest moments more than anything else. He knows _what_ David is, even if not _who_.

Why would this—angel want anything to do with him?

“The thing is, I…” Diarmuid hesitates. “I have this other friend.”

David’s lungs constrict. He shuffles his feet, leaning back, unable to keep still with the disappointment pulling every muscle tight. Of course—it’s someone else—he should never have thought—

“I like to think we’ve grown quite close,” Diarmuid continues, “but I can never tell what he thinks of me—“

He surely adores you, David thinks—then fiercely, shamefully—but never as much as I will.

“—Because he never speaks.”

David’s stomach drops even lower, if it were possible.

“He’s very expressive, but there’s—I don’t know, always this air of mystery. Like I can’t quite see the _real_ him.”

It couldn’t be possible. Was Diarmuid talking about—

“But I want to. I really, really want to.”

David shoves the door of the confessional open with one shoulder, and in the wake of the resounding crash he swings around to the door of the other side of the screen—tears it open and stands in the doorway, breathing heavily, eyes wild, disbelieving.

Diarmuid jumps when the door swings back—he’s sitting primly on the dark wood bench, in full cassock, one hand in his lap and the other wrapped around the jeweled cross necklace.

The one David gave him—the symbol of his God, but in the moment all David sees is _his._

Diarmuid’s eyes are wide, whites bright under the shadow David casts from the threshold. Pretty lips wet nervously—“You—”

David violently pulls the door shut behind him. “Tell me to stop.”

“Wh—What—“ 

David is over him in one step—crowding him into the corner of the confessional in one swoop—“Tell me to stop”—grabbing his sharp jaw between a thumb and forefinger—“Tell me to stop.”

The third time he says it, it’s a rough plea ghosting across Diarmuid’s stricken face. He knows this is wrong on so many levels—but he also knows himself well enough to know that, unless Diarmuid stops him, he’s too far gone to care.

Delicate hands unfamiliar with labor cup his face. Diarmuid’s lips meet his.

David should think about the consequences. He should think about Diarmuid’s sacred vow of chastity—his own fucking job—how this is absolutely too forward and Diarmuid may never want to speak to him, confessional or handwritten, ever again.

Instead, all he can think is _Diarmuid, Diarmuid, Diarmuid._

His little priest. His confidant. His friend. His—dream.

Fuck. He’s spent his whole life avoiding these sorts of attachments for this exact reason—he’s a fucking romantic.

He must’ve known he was lost after the first confession. Otherwise he might’ve been able to stop.

He cradles the back of Diarmuid’s head so he won’t hit the hard wall of the booth when David pushes into the kiss. Diarmuid squeaks—a delightful and high-pitched hum of surprise—and loses his balance somewhat, snakes an arm around David’s outstretched bicep to catch himself. Keen to keep him in place, David rests his other hand on Diarmuid’s hip. The fabric of his cassock has the subtle scratch of wool, thick and luxurious material; David runs a hand up Diarmuid’s side, over the broad band around his waist and up to the top of his ribs.

Immediately, Diarmuid gasps—“ _Oh!_ ”—and pulls away, eyes wide.

David’s stomach swoops. “Not good?”

God, he should give him space, he knows he should, he looks nervous and has he really always been this slight—

Diarmuid curls his fingers into the fabric of David’s white button-down—he’s gone casual today. He wasn’t expecting Diarmuid to see him. If he’d known, he would’ve worn something nicer.

“No—good.” Diarmuid is slightly out of breath. “I’m good. You’re—good?”

David can’t believe Diarmuid feels the need to ask, but his face warms at the attention, anyway. His answer is gruffer than intended, but Diarmuid doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Good.”

He waits for Diarmuid to kiss him again. It’s closed-mouthed, like the first one, a firm press that would be hilariously chaste if it didn’t make David’s gut coil pleasantly. His grip on Diarmuid’s side tightens—Diarmuid shivers—and David starts moving his lips, soft and careful and _gentle._

Diarmuid is a quick learner—the arm not clinging to David’s bicep drapes over the back of his neck, pulling him closer, a better angle for Diarmuid to return the gestures. David’s hand slides across rich fabric, up the tabbed collar—pausing to toy with the pretty little white square, feel Diarmuid’s Adam’s apple bob under the brush of his knuckles—and cup the side of his jaw, fingers lacing behind his ear. So sweet—so fucking sweet.

Diarmuid’s legs fall open and David shifts, positioning a knee on the bench so that he’s straddling Diarmuid’s lap, towering over him. In the brief moment the kiss is broken he scans Diarmuid’s face, searching for any apprehension—any sign of a dawning horror he expects him to have, eventually, because doesn’t he realize who David is?

“You were him,” Diarmuid murmurs; his eyes trace every feature with a sense of wonderment David cannot begin to comprehend. “The whole time.”

David’s chest seizes, and he leans in and kisses him again—like a plea to the universe to just let him have this one thing, this small and precious moment, this small and precious person.

Diarmuid kisses back in earnest, locking both arms around David’s neck.

He pulls back briefly, breathless, “David.”

David’s heart stutters—the way his name sounds in the walls of the confessional, from the mouth of Diarmuid—his mind goes blank.

He grunts his assent—kisses Diarmuid again, quick and insistent. “Is that okay?”

Diarmuid’s hand trails into his hair. “Of course.” He tilts his head to one side, kisses David at an angle. His lips are slick and candy-pink, now, and David almost forgets himself—but he needs to know—so he pulls away again.

“I’ve killed.”

A reminder.

“I know.”

Another kiss, warm and inviting and—

“I’m not a good person.”

Diarmuid’s fingers smooth over the buzzed hairs on the nape of his neck, and David suppresses a shiver of his own.

“I’ll let God decide that.”

This time he kisses David harder, and the coil in his gut tightens, and it’s enough to end whatever warning he was about to give next.

“Will you do that”—Diarmuid murmurs it against David’s mouth—“thing with your hand again?”

 _Gentle_ , David reminds himself fiercely, _gentle._

He skates his fingertips down the side of Diarmuid’s neck, still padding the back of his head against the confessional wall with the other. Over the cassock fabric—too thick, too many layers, so he presses in as he does, experimentally, one hand reaching from the edge of his shoulder blade with a thumb-tip to his chest. It’s a perfect fit.

Diarmuid arches into the touch, gasps against David’s mouth. David sweeps his hand between his shoulder blades, down the gentle valley of his spine. Diarmuid’s chest presses flush against David’s and he lets out the tiniest—softest—moan.

“Sorry,” he says immediately into David’s lips, “sorry.”

At this point, David is embarrassingly hard. His mind is a heated, swirling mess of Diarmuid’s touch and Diarmuid’s voice and _Diarmuid, Diarmuid, Diarmuid,_ and he finds himself less and less preoccupied with his own anxieties—how unfit he is for Diarmuid in any capacity but especially like this—and more preoccupied with the heat of Diarmuid’s parted lips, Diarmuid’s hands tangled in his hair, Diarmuid’s slender body arched against his own.

It makes it easier to slide his hand, with only a modicum of hesitation, back down his side—eliciting another full-body shiver—past the waistline framed so prettily by the band, and down the outline of one leg, to the hem of the cassock.

He leans in, tilting Diarmuid down, trailing his lips to his jaw. “Good?”

Diarmuid is clinging to his hair now, and it would be painful if David didn’t find it so achingly delicate. “Good.”

The skirt of the cassock bunches as his hand travels under it, up, along the inner seam of Diarmuid’s black slim-fit trousers—to the outline of his cock straining against his pants.

Fuck. _Fuck._

“Fuck,” David breathes against the side of Diarmuid’s jaw. Diarmuid shudders, and his hands slip from the back of David’s head and to the front, hovering lightly against his chest, as though he’s one wrong move away from pushing him off.

“Good?” Diarmuid asks—a tremor in his voice, and David nearly clacks their teeth in his rush to kiss it away, a promise he isn’t entirely certain the meaning of, yet.

“Very good,” he rumbles. “And you?”

Diarmuid gives a small smile, looking relieved and flushed and lovely. “Yes, g—”

David cups the outline of his cock and Diarmuid cuts off with a loud, shocked moan. His entire body jolts—hips bucking, one hand flying to grab David’s wrist, the other flying to cover his mouth. He shoots a startled glance at the door, still closed. David follows his gaze—then feathers kisses from the corner of his mouth to the shell of his ear.

“Can you be quiet?” he asks, barely above a murmur. He meets Diarmuid’s gaze, wide and glazed with arousal—and he nods—but as soon as David strokes him through his pants his eyes flutter and he whimpers into his palm.

“Diarmuid,” he admonishes, pressing his lips to the underside of his ear, sucking at a hidden freckle he finds framed by curls—and Diarmuid moans again, helplessly, loudly, cuts it off with a muffled whine.

“I don’t think I need to tell you,” David murmurs; his hand leaves Diarmuid’s cock to trace the waistline of his pants—tug at the belt buckle, thumb the soft skin above it, “how much trouble we’ll both be in if someone hears. Good?”

His hand settles on the buckle, inquiring. Diarmuid nods behind the protection of his hand—rolls his hips for emphasis, and David has to remind himself once again _gentle gentle gentle._

The belt hits the floor in quick work, a noisy thunk against the dark walnut that does their secrecy no favors. Diarmuid’s pants follow, though they try valiantly to cling to one ankle until David rips off his shoes and lets them hit the floor with the same grace as the belt.

So many fucking layers.

The cassock remains, pooling around bare thighs. David leans back for a better look, to watch his hands run out from under the dark skirt, across milky skin softer than his own fantasies—the times he had indulged himself in less tender thoughts of his little priest—to watch Diarmuid squirm when they swept back up under the cassock to the hem of his skin tight briefs.

“Still good?”

Diarmuid nods again—then scrambles to prop himself up as David discards the last piece, one hand on the bench, an elbow on the screen countertop. “And you? I—should I—”

David pauses, at this—then he draws Diarmuid in for another kiss, settling himself between his legs. He takes one of Diarmuid’s hands and guides it to his crotch, to his own erection, agonizing against his slacks. Diarmuid breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, slender fingers fumbling to feel the weight of it; the touch is painfully light, and David takes him by the shoulders and mouths at his neck to distract himself from the urge to buck.

“How much have you done?” he asks into his skin; Diarmuid’s breath stutters.

“Nothing. But—with myself!” he amends quickly, after David goes dangerously still; “I’ve—touched myself. Of course.”

In one fluid motion, David sits back on the bench, both feet planted firmly on the ground, and takes Diarmuid with him, guiding him to straddle his waist.

He runs his hands back under the cassock, digs his fingers into the back of Diarmuid’s thighs. “How?”

As he settles onto David’s lap, Diarmuid glances back at the door; then, turning back and leaning in close, takes David thought his slacks and runs a tight fist up the line of his cock; “Like this.”

David barely stifles the groan. His grip on Diarmuid’s thighs tightens before he cups his ass under the cassock. Diarmuid jerks forward, surprised, and presses himself flush against David’s chest.

“And I’ve… opened myself, too. A few times.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Hey.” It’s a genuine reprimand.

David kisses him, apologetically, and they both sink into it. Diarmuid’s hand undoes David’s belt, tucks each end neatly and efficiently into a belt loop—works past his fly to stroke him through thin briefs. David lets himself thrust into it, this time, now that he knows it isn’t enough to scare Diarmuid away—and Diarmuid’s hips move in response.

Carefully— _gentle gentle gentle_ —David’s hands coax Diarmuid forward until his hips are flush with David’s. He starts a rhythm—shallow, exploratory rolls of his hips while kneading Diarmuid’s ass. He hears Diarmuid’s breath tremble; then he wraps his arms around David’s shoulders and rests his forehead against his.

Diarmuid’s hips start moving to meet his, and though his cock is still hidden behind the thick layer of his cassock skirt he seems pleased—one arm around David’s neck tightens when Diarmuid brings the hand around to cover his mouth again. Their position shifts slightly again, and David takes the new opportunity to kiss, lick, suck at Diarmuid’s neck—leaving his harshest marks right at the base, where the damned tab collar will cover everything.

Diarmuid’s hand does a poor job of muffling him—at least when his mouth is right beside David’s ear. David has gathered that he’s sensitive, and every roll of his hips, every touch on his neck is enough to wrest a soft whimper or half-broken moan.

The sounds go straight to David’s dick. His pace begins to pick up—he hears Diarmuid’s free hand hit the wall behind his head, and he knows his own grip on the juncture of Diarmuid’s thighs and ass has grown bruising and he preemptively prays forgiveness.

“David—” the hand falls away from Diarmuid’s mouth, and he presses it instead into David’s temple. Hot, rapid breath ghosts across the shell of David’s ear and he moans, hips stuttering, one hand flying to the small of Diarmuid’s back beneath the cassock to keep him steady, keep him close.

He feels Diarmuid losing rhythm, too, and so he buries his face in the crook of Diarmuid’s neck, reaches between them, hand disappearing under the cassock, to fist their cocks—Diarmuid’s bare and hot and leaking and his own, clothed and straining in its own mess—together, rutting into it once, twice, and cums with a rough, shuddering groan muted in Diarmuid’s neck.

Diarmuid isn’t far behind—panting, desperately rolling his hips into David’s fist—curling in on both of them with a sharp cry pressed into David’s shoulder. He trembles through his orgasm, rocking into David’s hand, against his sullied shirt, until he’s spent.

The hand still resting on the small of Diarmuid’s back wraps around his—still under the cassock—and pulls him close; Diarmuid readjusts, settles more comfortably into David’s lap, still breathing heavily, face still buried in his shoulder.

David floats. He holds Diarmuid against his chest and doesn’t think—only Diarmuid, always Diarmuid.

After what feels like—years—Diarmuid sits up. David’s hold on his waist tightens reflexively—not eager to let go. The spike of anxiety is severely dampened by afterglow, but it’s still there as Diarmuid straightens, tilts his head at David, studies him.

Then he takes David’s face in both hands and kisses him—gently, gently, gently—and smiles into it.

And David kisses him back—like a confirmation—like a promise—like a confession.

//


End file.
